


rivers till i reach you

by combeferrer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2004 World Junior's Championship, 2010 Winter Olympics, 2014 Winter Olympics, 2015 NHL All-Star Weekend, Boston Bruins, M/M, Rare Pairings, Team Canada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combeferrer/pseuds/combeferrer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was inevitable all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rivers till i reach you

**Author's Note:**

> okay. so. on behind the b there's a clip from all-star weekend where shea weber says to patrice bergeron "always best dressed" and patrice hugs him and then, well. this happened. none of this is real, obviously, and if you somehow found this by googling your name or the name of someone you know, please don't torture yourself or me by reading this.
> 
> thanks to anastasia for basically helping to make this whole thing happen :-*

Patrice is nervous. Maybe he shouldn't be, seeing as it's game one of the group round, so it doesn't matter much, and Canada is heavily favored to win, but. He's nervous.

He's getting dressed for the game, tying his tie. He only brought red ties, for Canada, which is probably cheesy and lame, or whatever, but he's proud to represent his country, on the ice and off, so. Red ties.

Patrice smoothes down his suit, makes sure everything is hanging properly and nothing is wrinkled. He likes looking nice, owns nice clothes that he bought under the guidance of a combination of advice from his mother, father, and store clerks. Everything is tailored properly, because he’s learned fit is important, or your teammates will rag on you for wearing a suit that’s too big for you.

Over to his right Sid is struggling with his tie and Patrice laughs softly.

Sid looks over sharply.

"I know how to tie a tie," he asserts.

Patrice puts his hands up immediately, trying to placate Sid. He knows he would probably fuck something up if he tried to apologize with words. His English still isn't where he wants it to be, which is frustrating as hell.

It's not like he was a bad student in school, and hockey came like breathing. English is the hardest thing he’s ever learned, probably, and it’s all stops and starts and it's just. Difficult. And playing in the NHL (and now the AHL, due to the lockout) doesn't really leave him with a lot of time to sit down with Rosetta Stone or whatever, which is what he really needs to do to learn.

"Need help?" Patrice asks Sid, hoping that Sid doesn't take it the wrong way.

Sid blinks, before smiling sheepishly.

"Maybe a little?"

Patrice steps closer to him, tying it mechanically.

"I'm just nervous. It's messing with my ability to do simple tasks," Sid explains shakily, and Patrice nods. He gets it.

Tying a tie is like breathing for him now after being in the NHL. Sure he had worn suits for hockey in the Q, but it's different. You don't have to look as neat and clean in the Q as you do in the NHL, you just have to be wearing a tie. It doesn't matter how neatly it's tied, just that it's tied in the first place.

But in Boston (and Providence) he had to make sure everything was neat and even or else management would give you a talking to about presenting yourself properly. He had heard of that happening to some guys, and he never, ever wanted to be on the receiving end of that conversation. So he learned how to tie a tie perfectly no matter what, with hands sore and bruised from being slashed or blocked shot, or with hands shaking from nerves.

"My roommate had to tie for me in Boston before games for month, at least," Patrice replies easily, hoping to put Sid at ease.

It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but Sid seems to relax a bit at that, so whatever.

"Done," Patrice says, stepping away.

"Thanks," Sid says, smiling more genuinely.

They walk out into the hall after that to get to the buses. They’re quiet. Patrice is pretty sure Sid is kinda shy, at least at first. And Patrice knows for a fact that he’s a fairly quiet person. Shy maybe isn’t the word to describe himself, but he’s not gonna just talk to fill the silence, especially when English is still coming to him.

"Nice suit, Bergeron. Real NHL style you've got there," someone calls from behind.

Patrice turns and it's Shea Weber, smiling at him. Patrice smiles back. He and Shea haven't talked much, not yet, but Shea is calm and funny, or at least he was at dinner last night amongst the chaos of the team. Patrice thinks he'd like to get to know him more.

"I can give advice to you. You need it," Patrice chirps and Shea feigns offense.

"Rude and uncalled for," Shea says, and Patrice laughs.

Shea falls into step with Sid and him and Patrice feels a little more settled, a little more ready to get this thing going.

In the locker room he pulls on his jersey, the A weighing heavy on his chest, and the nerves return, but twice as bad as before.

Sutter is making an inspirational speech in the middle of the room, but Patrice’s hands are suddenly shaking so badly he can hardly tie his skates. Patrice surveys the locker room and sees that everyone else looks just as nervous, sallow skinned and shaky breathing, but across the room Shea is smiling at him, warm and calm as ever.

Patrice takes in a deep breath, laces up his skates, listens to his coach.

And when he scores a goal, Shea is tall and present in the huddle, and Patrice is overjoyed.

After the game they end up in Richie's room, who made it a mandatory meeting under captain's orders.

It's a tight squeeze, but they manage to all fit, with Richie and Carts on one of the beds, Richie's head in Carts' lap, Perrs, and Getzy on the other, and everyone else on the floor.

Patrice is sat between Sid and Shea on the floor.

"Good game today, boys," Richie says without sitting up. "It's team bonding time, so bond with your team, or whatever."

"Good speech!" Anthony calls out sarcastically and everyone laughs.

"Shut the fuck up, Stewart!" Richie replies, causing more laughter.

"Nice goal today," Shea says, quiet and calm. Shea's voice is low and warm, comforting, almost. It’s nice, a contrast to the chaos around them, as Perrs and Getz are engaged in a shoving match on one of the beds, and everyone else is cheering on one or the other.

"Thanks," Patrice answers, smiling back.

Patrice hopes he isn't imagining that Shea shifts closer.

When they win gold, Shea is still a source of calm in the madness, and Patrice can't help but grab onto it, settle himself off of Shea’s presence.

"I like you a lot," Patrice shouts over the music at the party in Richie's room, spectacularly drunk and wildly giddy. He didn't mean to say it, but he doesn't particularly mind the fact that he has said it.

"I like you too," Shea shouts back, grinning sloppily.  

Patrice steps into Shea's space, thinks about kissing him, thinks about the taste of the beer Shea is drinking, the warmth of Shea's hands all along his back.

Instead of kissing Shea he stumbles into him, their medals clinking together, then laughs and laughs till Shea is laughing with him, warm hands on his back as Patrice rests his head in the crook of Shea’s neck.

* * *

 

Patrice isn't stupid. He knows he's good, he's very confident in himself and his ability to play hockey, but it's still a total surprise when he's named to the Olympics roster. He wasn't even invited to orientation camp, which stung a little, but whatever, he didn’t expect anything, still doesn’t expect anything.

And then after a game against the Thrashers he’s got a voicemail telling him they want him for the team, and all of the sudden he’s playing for his country again.

In the locker room Zee makes sure everyone that was named to a roster gets the proper congratulations, and Patrice is treated to pats on the backs, nice comments from everyone, and every single beat writer gathered in front of his stall.

The Olympics turns out to be media frenzy after media frenzy, and straight off the plane in Vancouver he’s carted to talk to the media immediately, only given the time to throw on a Team Canada hoodie.

The amount of media there is quite frankly overwhelming. There’s a sea of people in front of him, all with microphones and recording devices, ready to grill him about his play, the team he’s playing with, bringing gold back to Canada after not even managing to medal at the last Olympics.

During the media frenzy, Patrice finds out that maybe he’s not the only one surprised by his inclusion on the roster. In fact, pretty much everyone is shocked by his inclusion on the roster. And that’s..not exactly encouraging. But it’s fine, he should be here, he knows he should be here. He earned it.

Patrice is rooming with Eric Staal, who is actually much nicer than his game face betrays.

The team eats all together that night at an Italian restaurant that Luongo swears is the best in the city. The atmosphere is pretty light-- their first game isn't for a few days, so everyone is relaxed, chatting and just getting to know each other.

Patrice is sat between Sid and Shea and he's reminded of five years ago on Mike Richards' hotel room floor.

"Bit of a throwback, eh?" Shea asks.

"Yeah, it really is," Patrice replies, smiling at the fact that Shea was thinking of the same exact thing.

"I can't believe how fast the time has passed," Shea says.

"Me either. Hopefully we win gold again," Patrice says and Shea's smile gets bigger.

"We will," Shea says confidently, and Patrice can't help but believe him.

The first game of the tournament is against Norway, and Patrice is nervous. Staal is nervous too, Patrice can tell, and they get ready in silence. Patrice's suit is simple but expensive, perfectly crisp. Last time he played internationally was for the World Championship and he wore ties of all different colors and they didn't medal, so he decided to revert to his World Juniors choice of only wearing red ties. It's probably silly, but whatever. He's allowed to be a little superstitious.

He and Eric walk to the bus together, darting to separate seats. They're not the first two there, but they're among the earliest.

Shea and Sid get on together and Sid immediately goes to sit with Flower. Shea drops into the seat next to Patrice.

"We're all in the NHL now but you still manage to have the nicest suit of everyone," Shea says, and Patrice laughs, surprised. He didn't think Shea would remember little things like that, but apparently Shea has remembered every little thing that Patrice has remembered, which is just. Nice. Comforting.

"You still look like you could use help," Patrice responds, which isn't actually true at all anymore, but Shea laughs.

They ride to the rink in silence, but the company is nice, comfortable. Patrice thinks absently that he has never sat in uncomfortable silence with Shea. It's a nice thought that sits warmly with him.

They crush their first game, scrape by in the next, and drop the one against the USA after that.

They've been outshooting the other teams, but they haven't been able to get it together for a solid win, which is frustrating. Plus the chemistry is still off and that's even more frustrating.

"We just have to put the puck away," Shea says. They're in Shea's room, just the two of them, as Sid went to go hang out with Flower and a few others. They're on Shea's bed, with Shea lying down and Patrice sitting at his feet. It's a tight squeeze, but it's fine, really. Patrice doesn't mind.

"Well, yeah," Patrice answers, because obviously, but that's much easier said then done.

"You're playing well," Shea offers and Patrice snorts because, no, not really.

"I have one point. You have, like, four," Patrice says.

"I have three," Shea corrects and Patrice smiles despite himself.

"We'll get it together," Patrice says quietly.

"Yeah, we will," Shea responds, and he sounds so sure and so confident that Patrice believes him.

Sid comes back then and they hang out till dinner, chatting about Boston, Nashville, and Pittsburgh and telling funny stories about their teammates back home.

It's nice. Sid is nice. Shea is nice. Patrice likes their company.

Shea is right, he always seems to be right, because they do get it together and they win gold and Patrice is at the largest party he has ever been to in his life. All the Canadian athletes that won a medal are there, so the place is absolutely packed full of drunk, excited people.

He's quite drunk, which is probably why he's basically hanging all over Shea, but Shea doesn't seem to mind, as he sings loudly and terribly to whatever top 40 music is being blasted over the speakers.

"Gold medal!" Shea shouts, looking at Patrice.

"Gold medal!" Patrice replies.

They're close, nearly touching, and Shea reels Patrice in by his medal.

Shea cups Patrice's face and his heart skips a beat because holy shit this is happening, and he's drunk enough that he can admit to himself just how badly he wants this.

Shea lets go, though, just smiles sloppily at Patrice and Patrice can't help but feel a little disappointed. They stick close together for the rest of night, floating from group to group until they finally decide to go to bed.

* * *

The second time he makes the Olympic team is less of a surprise, but it's still just as exciting as last time.

The guys all congratulate him, and Iggy claps him on the shoulder, tells him good luck. Iggy isn't coming this time, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Sure you guys can win gold without me?" Iggy jokes, and Patrice smiles.

"We'll try," Patrice replies.

Marchy congratulates him in true Marchy fashion by asking who he blackmailed to make the team two Olympics in a row.

Patrice laughs at that.

"Nah, I'm kidding man, congrats, you deserve it," Marchy says when the laughter dies down, smiling genuinely.

Marchy's a good guy, no matter what other people think, Patrice thinks, suddenly fiercely defensive of his liney to no one in particular.

"Thanks, Marchy," Patrice returns, smiling back.

The Sochi Olympics are different in that everyone from Team Canada shares a flight, stopping somewhere in each division to pick guys up. Also, Patrice knows most of the guys already this time around.

Price and Subban are already on the plane when Patrice gets on and he smiles and nods politely at them, and they smile and nod back. They probably won't end up as the best of friends at the end or anything, but they're team for now. They can get along fine.

When the guys from the central division are picked up, Shea walks down the aisle and pauses at the row Patrice is in.

"This seat taken?" Shea asks and Patrice smiles.

"It can be taken by you," Patrice offers and Shea grins before sitting down.

"So how've you been?" Shea asks.

"Good, good. You?" Patrice returns.

"Could be worse, you know, I am going to the Olympics right now," Shea replies, still grinning.

"What a coincidence, that's where I'm going too," Patrice says, and Shea laughs, even though Patrice knows for a fact that it wasn't funny at all.

When they arrive in Sochi, Patrice has a crick in his neck from falling asleep with his head positioned awkwardly on Shea's shoulder, but he doesn't mind too much, can't really complain at all.

Shea is rooming with Sid again, and in some ridiculous cosmic joke, Patrice is rooming with PK.

Which is just. Fine. Perfectly and absolutely alright. PK is a nice guy and whatever. And they're team for now. It's fine.

He does lament a bit to Shea, though.

"Guess who I'm rooming with?" Patrice asks Shea at dinner. Shea is shoving a mouthful of pasta in his mouth.

"Who?" Shea asks, after he's done chewing.

"No, you have to guess, you'll never guess it," Patrice says and Shea considers it for a moment.

"Hamhuis?" Shea suggests, before taking another bite, and Patrice shakes his head.

"Nope. PK," Patrice says, and Shea nearly chokes on his bite of food from laughing.

"I can't believe this," Shea manages through the coughing.

"Me either!"

"Maybe it was like a team bonding thing to try and make you guys friends or something," Shea suggests after taking a sip of water.

"PK is a nice guy, I don't really have a problem with him or anything, but still, you know?" Patrice asks. Maybe he's being a little silly about it, but it still seems like an odd decision.

"No, I understand," Shea says, and Patrice feels a little better about it.

They hang out in Patrice's room after dinner, watching a movie together on Patrice's laptop. They're sat close together against the headboard of Patrice's bed, the laptop half on Patrice's lap, half on Shea's. It's a bit of a tight squeeze, since Shea is so big and Patrice certainly isn't small, but they manage.

Patrice likes being this close to Shea, which...probably isn't great. He knows he has a lowgrade crush on Shea that resurfaces every time they play together, but his knowledge of its existence doesn't make it any less stupid. Plus, Patrice feels as though he's probably too old to be having crushes anymore, but here he is with a crush on another (probably straight) NHL player that lives really fucking far from Boston.

PK walks in halfway through the movie and just putters around the hotel room, putting stuff away and figuring out where everything is. Patrice doesn't mind, though-- it's not like he and Shea are paying close attention to the movie anyway, talking over the mindless dialogue and making fun of the stupid parts together. Their movie commenting style meshes perfectly and Patrice likes it more than he probably should.

At the end of the movie, Shea heads to his room and PK sits on his bed and stares knowingly at Patrice.

"Oh shut up," Patrice says, and feeling his cheeks heat up, he turns over to hide his face in his pillow.

"I didn't say anything!"

"Shut up anyway," Patrice says, but it's muffled by the pillow. PK just laughs at him, which oddly enough, makes Patrice feel a little better. It reminds him a little bit of how Marchy would act.

Patrice never expected PK Subban to remind him of Marchy, but he also never expected to share a room with PK Subban in Russia, so. Things rarely tend to go as planned.

Their first game is a few days later and Patrice stuck with the red ties thing. It's dumb, but it works.

"Good ol’ Montreal Canadiens colored tie there," PK comment as Patrice ties his tie.

"Shut up, PK," Patrice says, focusing on getting the knot right, and PK just laughs.

Shea is already on the bus when they get there and Patrice drops down into the seat next to him.

"Do you always try to dress better than me or does it just end up that way?" Shea asks and Patrice laughs.

"I don't have to try that hard, buddy," Patrice replies and Shea laughs.

The rest of the ride is quiet, everyone trying to focus their energy for the game.

They win that first game, and the next, and the next, and it's actually moving along well this time around, and Patrice doesn't want to jinx anything, but he feels good about this team, about their chances. They all just click so well, there's a lot of familiar faces so the chemistry is already there, and Pricey becomes an absolute brick walk for them night after night.

The wins aren’t easy, per se, but they’re happening and Patrice is happy with how the team is playing.

They play the US. The game is a tough battle all the way through, tense and hard fought. And then Jamie scores, and Patrice is so, so relieved he feels like he could quite possibly pass out. He catches Shea's eye and Shea smiles, joyful and honest and perfect, so absolutely perfect, and Patrice can't help but smile back just as openly.

Leading up to the gold medal game, Patrice is so nervous that he can't do much of anything other than pretend to watch a movie with Shea and Sid. The movie is playing on Shea's laptop in Sid and Shea's room, but no one is listening to a word. When it’s done, Patrice finds he doesn't even know what movie they ended up watching.

He's just as nervous as last time. It's not like he thought it would be less nerve-wracking this time around, but at the same time, he thought maybe the second time is a little easier, a little less scary, but it's just as scary as the last time, if not more so, because this team has expectations on them. Every Canadian citizen, every hockey analyst in the world, thinks that they're gonna win gold, and sure, it's nice to be favored, but it makes the possibility of failure that much more terrifying.

Sid is confident, as always. Something about Sid always gives off an air of confidence, but the nerves are peeking through, and Patrice can't help but remember the eighteen year old boy who couldn't tie his tie because his hands were shaking. Patrice wonders absently if Shea will have to help him this time around, before remembering that Sid is an adult, they are all adults, and they can all tie their own ties.

Shea seems calm, hiding his anxiety well, but Patrice can sense that Shea is nervous underneath it all, can see the tension he holds in the thinness of his smiles and the distance in his eyes.

Patrice wonders if Sid can see it, if anyone else could see it, or if maybe he just knows Shea well enough to be able to tell. Patrice hopes that it's the latter. He knows it's dumb, but he can't help it.

When Patrice says goodnight, Shea holds eye contact for a moment too long to be normal, smiles softly, and it feels real, just as real as during the game against the U. S.

Patrice has trouble falling asleep, but when he's asleep, he stays asleep, and dreams of Shea's smile when he said goodnight.

They win gold. The game itself is a clinic, Canada dominating in a completely convincing win, and Patrice is so happy and fulfilled, so proud of his country and teammates, so proud of himself, so proud of Shea, who is smiling at him, and Patrice is helpless but to smile right back.

At the afterparty, Shea is by his side the whole time, occasionally shouting "double gold, baby!"

Patrice attempts to shout it back each time, but dissolves into giggles halfway through.

The music is loud, deafening really, and Patrice wants to get away, for a moment, at least, and Shea says he does too.

It's quieter outside, but the music is still very audible. The village is all lit up in the dark, but things should be going dark soon, seeing as it's probably like two in the morning. Patrice checks his watch, and it is indeed 2 AM. It's a little breezy out, and he shivers, but Shea sees that and gives him his coat.

"You're gonna be cold then," Patrice says, but Shea drapes it over Patrice’s shoulders anyway.

It's warm and big and smells like Shea and Patrice likes it immediately. Patrice is pretty sure he has the same coat; it's just something that Hockey Canada gave them, but his doesn't smell like Shea, and he's drunk enough to admit to himself how much he likes that.

Shea is looking at him, and he is looking at Shea, and then all of the sudden Shea is kissing him, and he is kissing Shea back. Shea is warm and solid and the kiss is a little sloppy from how drunk they both are, but mostly it’s sweet and soft and everything Patrice could ever want. Shea’s lips are soft and warm and taste like champagne.

"Sorry," Shea says quietly when he breaks the kiss. "I just--"

"It's fine," Patrice says, "really fine."

Shea smiles at him, opens his mouth as if to speak, but then shuts it. When he opens it again, he says "let's go back to the party."

About an hour later they walk back to their rooms, Shea's hand heavy on Patrice's shoulder.

Patrice wants to kiss Shea again at his door, but he doesn't. Shea doesn't kiss him either, though, so.

When he gets in his room, PK is already in his bed, and Patrice brushes his teeth, stumbles out of his pants, and flops heavily into bed. He tries to sleep, but all he can focus on is the memory of how it felt to kiss Shea.

"PK," he whispers, and it sounds loud in the silent room.

"What the fuck, man, I'm trying to sleep," PK says back, irritation clear in his voice, even though he's muffled by his pillow.

"I have something important to tell you," Patrice whispers.

"Why the fuck are you whispering?" PK asks.

"Sorry," Patrice whispers.

"Stop whispering, and just tell me what you need to tell me," PK orders.

"Shea kissed me," Patrice says, this time at normal volume, and PK flips over so fast he nearly falls out of bed. He then leans over to turn on the light and squints at Patrice.

"Tell me everything," he commands, and Patrice complies.

"You just said 'it's fine'?" PK asks when the whole story is done.

"Yes?"

"Jesus Christ, man, he probably thinks that you hate him or something."

"No, no! He smiled! I kissed him back! He probably definitely knows," Patrice defends himself.

PK raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Well, uh. Not exactly?"

"Talk to him tomorrow about it," PK instructs.

"I don't know..." Patrice replies, anxiously. He doesn't want to find out that Shea didn't mean it, that Shea was just drunk and excited and he kissed Patrice just because Patrice was there.

"Just do it, sort your shit out. I'm going to bed," PK says, before shutting off the light and doing just that.

Patrice decides to wait for Shea to say something, but Shea doesn't say anything at all. They spend their last day in Sochi together, Patrice in Shea's jacket because it seems warmer than his own, even though he knows that's technically impossible.

They talk about a lot of things. About the gold medal, about the city, about going back home. They don't talk about the kiss.

It's fine.

Patrice is fine.

They're fine.

When Patrice gets home to Boston, he remembers he still has Shea's coat. He rests it on the chair in his room: a reminder.

* * *

Everyone always told him the All Star Weekend was pretty fun. The media part kinda sucked, but everyone got drunk and spent three days just shooting the shit.

So Patrice was pretty excited for it, and pretty honored to be named in the first place.

When he got to the draft a drink was immediately put in his hand when he sat down, and the drinks kept coming and coming, even after he was drafted and sitting on stage in front of national television.

Patrice isn't exactly trashed, but he for sure isn't sober. He's just loose and happy, more talkative and open than he normally is with people he barely knows. There are guys from Team Canada he knows, and an ex-teammate or two from somewhere along the line, but it's mostly people that he knows only in passing or not at all.

After the draft everyone ends up at a bar in downtown Columbus that Foligno suggests. Patrice is a little surprised that they all managed to squeeze into the place, but it's fine, just a tad bit crowded.

A lot of the guys are in small groups at booths, just hanging out with each other. Some of the younger, single guys are dancing with girls, trying to hook up.

Patrice is just surveying, taking a minute to himself. Sure the alcohol makes talking to people easier, but he still needs to take some time to himself amidst the chaos and crowd.

He's sipping his drink at the bar, just scrolling through his phone when he feels someone sit down next to him.

"Hey," the person says, and the voice is familiar.

Patrice looks over and it's Shea, smiling a little too messily to be sober.

"Hey, Shea," Patrice responds, and smiles back.

Shea is drunk, but this is nowhere near the drunkest Patrice has seen him, as memories from Vancouver and Sochi flash back to him.

He recalls Shea singing loudly and offkey in Vancouver, Shea shouting "double gold, baby!" right in his ear in Sochi.

"What're you doing all alone here?" Shea asks, and Patrice is brought back to the present.

"Just trying to take some time off from the crowd," Patrice replies and Shea nods.

"I understand that," Shea says.

They sit quietly and Patrice thinks about Sochi and the warm feeling of Shea’s mouth moving against his. Since then Patrice and Shea texted every so often, just enough to make Patrice feel like this is something he might never get over too easily. Patrice cuts himself off there. He can't think about this, especially not here when he's a little drunk and with Shea.

Patrice asks "excited for the skills competition?" so he can try and think about something else for a bit.

And they talk about that, about what they’ll be doing.

"You're doing the hardest shot competition, I assume,” Patrice says, and Shea nods.

"Yeah, I am," Shea says easily. "Think I can beat your captain's record?"

Patrice smiles. "Absolutely not." He may be on the same team as Shea for the weekend, but he's loyal to Zee first and foremost.

"Bet you I can," Shea says, and his voice is low and gravelly, and Patrice can feel Shea's body heat radiating all along his side.

"Yeah?" Patrice asks, and it's stupidly breathy, but Patrice swears Shea shifts closer.

"Yeah," Shea says and appraises him openly, which makes Patrice flash hot.

"What are we betting?" Patrice asks.

Patrice felt like maybe everything, every moment with Shea, has lead up to this point, this second in time. The time he almost kissed Shea at World Juniors, the time Shea almost kissed him in Vancouver, the time Shea did kiss him in Sochi while wearing Shea's jacket, so everything around him smelled and felt like Shea. Like he hasn't been the only one fucked up over their relationship for the last year.

"I win, you blow me. You win, I blow you," Shea says, right in Patrice's ear, and Patrice chokes on air.

"Fuck," Patrice swears quietly, but with feeling.

"You good with those terms?" Shea asks, and Patrice nods vigorously.

"Good, good," Shea says, and the tension is gone as Shea pulls away, and Patrice isn't one-hundred percent sure that it happened at all.

Shea finishes his drink and asks "so how's Boston?" through a mouthful of ice, and the tension is gone completely.

When Patrice gets to the hotel, he films a piece for Behind the B. He’s glad he didn’t drink as much as he could have, because it would have been pretty difficult to film this drunk. He's still not completely sober, but whatever, hopefully the fans won't be able to tell. He watches Ray Bourque’s accuracy competition for the show and talks about how he’s a little nervous for it.  None of the skills really suit him at all, but he supposes if he had to choose, this one isn’t all that bad. It could be worse: he could be doing the race or something. After that, the cameras go away and he gets to bed.

While lying in bed he stares at the ceiling, thinking about the whole thing with Shea. He's equal parts nervous and excited, because Shea could have been joking which would have been mean, but NHL players can be very mean. It didn't feel like a joke, though, and Shea sounded serious. He falls asleep thinking about the whole situation.

The next day Patrice isn’t really sure if that conversation with Shea actually happened or if he dreamt the whole thing. He supposes he’ll find out later, after the competition is over if Shea tries to make good on the bet.

They walk into the stadium on a red carpet, which feels excessive, but there are tons of fans along it, and Patrice signs as many autographs as he can. 

He sees Shea again just in the stadium, and Shea checks him out pretty openly, in front of everyone, which makes Patrice blush.

Patrice flashes back to last night in the bar, Shea's gaze on him hot and appraising, and he suppresses a shiver.

"Always the best dressed," Shea says and Patrice laughs, and then last minute decides to go for a hug that he hopes seems more casual than it actually is, hiding his face in Shea's chest. Shea hugs him back easily and they continue walking together.

He had joked to the media about a back-checking competition, but he sort of wished that it was a real thing as he laced up his skates and pulled his jersey over his head.

He sits next to Shea on the ice to watch the competition. Their team gets a little demolished in the competitions, but whatever, it’s all for fun, for the kids all over America and Canada that get to watch their favorite players play together for once.

“You’re up soon,” Patrice tells Shea.

“Yup.”

“Nervous?” Patrice asks.

“Eh, a little? Everyone expects me to have the hardest shot, it would kinda suck if I didn’t,” Shea says and Patrice nods.

“Shea, you’re up,” Tazer says, and Shea gets up from his seat.

“The bet still stands, by the way,” Shea says, before skating away. Patrice is stuck staring after him.

Shea misses his first shot entirely, which is pretty funny, but then he nails the second shot, straight into the net. For a moment Patrice holds his breath as he waits for the sensor to flash the speed up, and it’s 108.5.

Patrice won the bet.

Shea is gonna blow him tonight.

Shea skates back to his seat and smiles at Patrice. “Well, well, well, looks like you’ve won.”

“Yeah, um, looks like it,” Patrice replies, trying to stay calm, but missing by a mile.

And basically, for the rest of the competition, it’s all Patrice can think about: Shea on his knees, wet heat, his hands in Shea’s hair. It’s distracting, to say the least.

“What’re you thinking about?” Shea asks quietly.

“Nothing,” Patrice lies quickly, and Shea smirks knowingly.

After the competition is over they go out again with everyone else. They’re at the same bar as last night and Shea and Patrice stick together.

“We’ll head back to my room pretty early,” Shea tells Patrice, and Patrice nods in response.

They chat a bit with some of the guys, but Patrice is pretty distracted, and Shea keeps his hand on the small of Patrice’s back the whole time, warm and heavy, which distracts him even further, as all he can think about are Shea's hands, hot and huge, elsewhere on his body.

Patrice sees Tazer notice the hand, and also sees the moment when Tazer decides to say absolutely nothing about it, which is a very, very good thing because Patrice has no explanation at hand, and he absolutely cannot just say “well, I’ve had a crush on Shea since World Juniors and now Shea is gonna blow me in his hotel room.” That probably wouldn’t go over too well.

“Time to head out, make our excuses,” Shea says, low in Patrice’s ear and Patrice nods, his face turning hot.

“Shea and I are gonna head out,” Patrice says, before realizing just how incriminating that sounds.

Tazer raises an eyebrow. “Alright, guys, get some sleep, gotta win the game since we lost the skills comp,” Jonny says, but he’s smiling as he says it.

“Goodnight,” Shea says, before gently but solidly guiding Patrice out of the bar.

The cab ride back to the hotel is quiet, as is the walk up to Shea’s hotel room. It’s the first time the silence between them isn’t entirely comfortable. It’s not awkward or anything, just heavy, weighed down by everything that’s about to happen.

As soon as they get into Shea’s room, Shea pins Patrice against the back of the door and pauses for a moment, searching Patrice's face for something. Shea has him pinned pretty well, which is, well, unusual. Shea isn’t much taller than Patrice, but he’s got nearly forty pounds on him. Patrice has always been bigger than the women and men he has dated and slept with, both in height and weight, and it’s nice to be the smaller one for once. Patrice likes being smaller, likes that Shea can pin him, likes that Shea can push him around if he wanted.

Shea is still just looking at him, and Patrice thinks maybe Shea is looking for permission of sorts. Patrice nods, hoping that's enough of an answer, and Shea leans in and kisses him. Shea's lips are warm and soft and gentle until they aren't as gentle anymore, as Shea bites Patrice's lower lip, and Patrice moans into the kiss. Shea takes that opening and runs his tongue along Patrice's lower lip

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” Shea admits when he pulls away for breath.

“Yeah?” Patrice asks.

“Yeah. Since like, World Juniors, maybe,” Shea says, and that startles a laugh out of Patrice.

“Why are you laughing?” Shea asks.

“It’s just...same,” Patrice says, and now Shea’s laughing too.

“I could’ve had sex at nineteen, I can’t believe this,” Shea says, which sets Patrice off again.

“You could have. I would’ve,” Patrice confirms once his laughter dies down, and Shea smiles at him sweetly, before kissing him again, softer. Shea moves his hands from Patrice’s wrists to his waist and Patrice loops his arms around Shea’s neck.

Shea shifts his focus and kisses down Patrice’s neck, a gentle brush of lips until he bites directly under Patrice’s jawline, shocking a moan out of Patrice.

“No marks,” Patrice says reluctantly. He wouldn’t mind a few bruises, but there are cameras everywhere here and there’s no way marks would escape unnoticed.

“What about in places the cameras can’t see?” Shea propositions, and Patrice can get down with that. The guys might chirp him for it, but it could be worse. It would be worth it to be able to have a reminder of this night with Shea for a few days.

"Okay, that's fine," Patrice concedes and Shea smiles.

"Do you want to take off your shirt?" Shea asks, and Patrice nods.

Patrice starts unbuttoning his shirt and Shea does the same.

"Bed?" Patrice asks.

"Yeah, definitely, definitely." Shea replies quickly, and Patrice laughs at how eager Shea sounds.

Patrice lays down on the bed and Shea stretches out over Patrice, bracketing his arms and knees over Patrice, before leaning down to kiss Patrice again for a moment, before kissing down his neck and chest, pausing for a moment at each nipple, which causes Patrice to take in a sharp breath. Shea continues, alternating bites and kisses until he gets to Patrice's pants. He looks up at Patrice for permission, and when Patrice nods, Shea unbuckles Patrice's belt and tosses it aside. He then unbuttons Patrice's pants and unzips them as well.

"Lift your hips for me?" Shea asks, and Patrice complies, which allows Shea to tug Patrice's suit pants off and throw them on the floor.

"I hope you have another suit," Shea says and Patrice huffs out a laugh.

"Of course I do."

"Good, because those pants are gonna be a wrinkled mess," Shea tells him, matter of factly, and Patrice can't help but smile. This thing with Shea is so easy. Patrice has been smiling or laughing through the whole thing, which is rare. It's a good change of pace.

Shea wastes no time of shucking Patrice's underwear and getting a hand on him. Finally, Shea gets his mouth on him and it's all wet, slick heat, and Patrice moans at the feel of it.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for Patrice to get close and he taps Shea's shoulder and manages to get out a warning, but Shea doesn't pull off at all, and Patrice comes with a groan.

After catching his breath, Patrice motions for Shea to come up to kiss him and Shea listens.

Patrice works a hand between them and unbuttons and unzips Shea's pants, before jacking Shea off as they kiss.

Shea comes, panting against Patrice's mouth, and rolls off to the side of the bed and takes off his ruined suit pants.

"I hope you have another suit," Patrice says, and Shea just laughs.

"Come here," Shea says and Patrice does, spooning himself in front of Shea, who holds him close. Patrice is never the little spoon. He finds that he likes it, likes having Shea all along his back.

They fall asleep like that in Shea's hotel room, warm and happy and comfortable.

The next morning Patrice wakes up much warmer than usual, feeling another body right up against him. He remembers the night before pretty quickly, and looks down to see a few marks down his chest, which make him flush from the memory of Shea leaving them there.

Suddenly there's a knock on the door and Patrice's blood runs cold.

"Hello?" the voice calls, and that's Tazer.

Shea is still sleeping and Patrice swats at his shoulder.

"Shea, wake up, Tazer is knocking on your door."

And that wakes Shea up pretty quickly.

"Fuck, let me just-- just a minute, Tazer!" Shea calls out.

"Where should I go?" Patrice asks quietly.

"Bathroom," Shea says, before pushing Patrice towards the bathroom and shutting the door.

Patrice sits on the floor and considers what just happened. He likes Shea a lot, like, a lot a lot, but is it worth the possibility of getting caught? Plus, it would be long distance, which is honestly terrible. He tried that when he moved to Boston and it just didn't work out with the girl back home at all. One night is probably all they get, all they can get, and it's just gonna have to be enough that way, no matter that Patrice wants more than that, which he also thinks is ridiculous. It's too early to be this into Shea, too early to want more than what they are.

"You can come out now," Shea calls, startling Patrice from his thoughts, and Patrice walks out of the bathroom.

"You probably want to wait like a half hour to get back to your room, all the guys are going to breakfast at the hotel then so they won't be wandering down the halls and whatever," Shea says.

"Are you gonna go now?" Patrice asks and Shea shakes his head.

"Nah. Tazer told me you didn't answer your door and I told him I would check on you in a bit," Shea says.

"Okay, sounds good," Patrice says.

Shea is sitting on the bed just looking at him, the pale morning light filtering in through the crack between the curtains, and Patrice wants him so, so badly that he can't help but straddle Shea's lap.

"I can think of a few ways we can spend a half hour," Patrice murmurs and Shea hums.

"I like the way you think," Shea responds, before kissing Patrice softly.

They probably can't be together, Patrice thinks, but they might as well make the most of what they have.

He sits next to Shea on the bus, and Shea rests his hand on Patrice's thigh in a gesture that isn't nearly as discrete as they need to be, but Patrice can't bring himself to mind. Everyone else on the bus is chatting and joking around, so they go unnoticed.

"How're you doing?" Shea asks quietly.

"I'm good. Excited," Patrice responds.

"Good, you should be. I remember my first All-Star Game I was a little nervous," Shea says.

"Yeah?" Patrice asks.

"It ended up being a lot of fun, though not as fun as this time," Shea tells him.

"Why was this one more fun?" Patrice asks.

"Just this guy I hooked up with," Shea deadpans and Patrice laughs. 

Their stalls are next to each other in the locker room and they chat as they get ready.

"I'm gonna try and backcheck, you know, show off my skillset, play some D," Patrice jokes and Shea laughs.

"I'm gonna take on a shutdown role, you know? Make some heavy hits to shut down the other guys," Shea jokes back.

"Maybe together we can keep the other team down, make sure they only score like, seven goals, you know?" Patrice says.

"Definitely, gotta play some strong D, pick up the slack for everyone else." Shea replies.

The game itself is just fun and the score rackets up pretty quickly. No one is playing defense or trying that hard, just fucking around and having fun with it all.

Patrice scores, off an assist from Tyler, which is a bit of flashback, and Patrice hopes that Tyler isn't still raw from the trade. Tyler never said it, but Patrice could just tell when Tyler met up with guys from the team whenever the Stars played the Bruins.

“We’ve still got it,” Patrice says as they huddle to celebrate the goal and Tyler laughs.

“We sure do,” he says, smiling.

Tyler doesn't seem bitter now, though, just happy. It's a better look on him.

After the game is over, some of the guys have planes to catch tonight, but most of them are still here till Monday, including Shea and himself.

"Wanna go out with the guys?" Patrice asks and Shea shakes his head.

"I want you," Shea says low, and Patrice flushes.

They end up at his room this time, jacking eachother off on Patrice's bed, panting into each other's mouths the whole time.

When they've both come, Shea spoons Patrice again and they just talk. They talk about the weekend, about their teams, about anything.

It goes quiet for a moment, the only sound Patrice hears is Shea's breathing low in his ear.

He’s gonna miss this, gonna miss Shea and the feeling of Shea wrapped all around him.

"I don't want to leave tomorrow," Patrice says sullenly, suddenly breaking the silence before he can stop himself.

Shea is quiet for a moment. "That's not true."

And Shea is right, it's not true. Columbus, Ohio kind of sucks and Boston is his home. But Shea is here, and they've made a nice little bubble of denial in their hotel rooms that Patrice doesn't really want to leave, right now or ever.

"I don't..." Patrice starts, falters. This is hard to say, he doesn't want to fuck up whatever this is, but he can't leave tomorrow without having said it.

Shea is quiet, allowing Patrice to consider his words before continuing. There are so many things Patrice could say, things he wants to say so badly.

"I don't want to have to stop this," Patrice says quietly, once he's done considering it. Shea says nothing, and Patrice starts to panic as Shea continues to be quiet.

"Alright," Shea says finally, and Patrice can feel it rumble through Shea's chest against his back. "We don't have to stop this."

"Shea, I live in Boston. You do not live in Boston."

"I get that. And no promises. But maybe we can try and make a long distance friendship work and see from there."

Shea is right. They hardly talk between events when they see each other, and Patrice thinks that it's as fine a time as any to start.

"Okay, that works for me," Patrice responds.  

"Good, now we should probably get to sleep. Early flight tomorrow."

They fall asleep just like that.

The next morning they wake up early, untangle themselves from each other. Patrice gets in the shower and Shea follows, but they don't fuck. Shea shampoos Patrice's hair first, and Patrice does the same for Shea. It's nice. Really nice. Intimate in a way that Patrice never expected from Shea, especially not this soon.

They go to breakfast and most of the other guys are there, eating and chatting. Patrice and Shea sit alone and the guys give them their space. Patrice isn't sure why, perhaps they're giving off some sort of signal that they just need to be together with only each other, but he's glad for it.

They eat quietly. Patrice rests his foot on top of Shea's and Shea lets him, for which Patrice is grateful.

After breakfast, they go separate ways to pack up everything they need.

When Patrice is packing up he spends the time thinking of Shea, of what they did, how he feels about it all. He never expected to want to date Shea, he just thought Shea was hot. But now all he can think about is going to dinner with Shea and holding his hand, and it's just. A lot. It's a complete onslaught of new feelings.

He's checking the bathroom for any toiletries he may have left behind when he hears a knock at the door.

Behind the door is Shea, holding up the disaster that is Patrice's suit from Saturday night.

"You, uh, left this in my room?" Shea says, like a question.

“Thank you," Patrice replies, taking the wrinkled heap of clothing.

They're quiet for a moment, just staring at each other, before starting at the same time.

"So I'll just--"

"Do you want--"

They both stop, smiling.

"You first," Patrice says.

"No, you."

"I was just wondering if you want to come in?" Patrice says, and Shea's smile grows.

"Sure."

Patrice steps aside and Shea walks in.

Shea boxes in Patrice against the wall immediately and kisses him, fast and hard and desperate. It's a lot, and it's everything Patrice needs right no

Shea pulls away, breathing heavily, resting his forehead against Patrice’s. "Sorry. I had to."

Patrice ignores that in favor of tugging Shea down for another bruising kiss.

"If we don't stop now, I'm gonna have to get on my knees for you right now," Shea warns, pulling away.

Patrice considers it for a moment, but looks over Shea's shoulder at the open suitcase on his bed and knows they can't do this right now.

Patrice reluctantly responds, "you're right."

Shea leans in to kiss him once more, this time soft and sweet and perfect.

When they're packed up, they split a cab to the airport. The ride to the airport is quiet. Patrice hardly resists the urge to grab Shea's hand.

At the airport they hug quickly, inconspicuous.

"You better text me," Patrice says, and Shea smiles.

"I will, I promise."

They go their separate ways for their separate flights and Patrice tries not to feel too sad about the whole thing. At least he and Shea will become better friends. Friends are nice. Patrice likes having friends. If it works out to be more than friends, well. That's good too. Patrice would welcome that.

He gets on the plane and takes a nap till they touch down at Logan.

As he gets off the plane, he checks his phone reflexively, for texts or calls from friends or family he may have missed while the phone was on airplane mode.

He has one single new text, and the text is from Shea, which makes him grin like an idiot in the middle of a crowded airport.

_So I'm texting you. Like you so rudely commanded I do._

Patrice bites down on a laugh.

_So you are. Gold star for Shea today :)_

Patrice knows Shea is still on his plane, still on his way to Nashville, so he won't see his reply for a while, but he doesn't mind.

He can wait.

He's waited ten years already, ten years that finally culminated into this.

In comparison, a few hours is nothing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> few notes here. in an article about the 2004 wjc team canada, it was consensus that the funniest teammate was anthony stewart, so he's here. perrs is corey perry, getzy is ryan getzlaf, richie is mike richards, carts is jeff carter. 
> 
> at sochi, patrice actually roomed with duncan keith, but i didn't find that out till i had begun to write pk as patrice's roomie and i liked the idea too much to give it up.


End file.
